


The Marriage Vow

by LadyRhiyana



Series: Etchings [11]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dub-con vibes, Evil King Jaime, F/M, King Jaime Lannister, Mildly Dubious Consent, PWP without Porn, enemies to almost-lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:15:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29151858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: “Are there any here who would brave the Beauty’s sword?” King Jaime asked. “Though he will have to be a brave man indeed, given the rumours of her prowess.”The crowd murmured behind her, but no voices rang out. He frowned at them. “What? Are there no gallant knights among you? I grant the lady is no beauty, and the Sapphire Isle no more than a godforsaken rock in the Narrow Sea, but even so –”“Well, if none among you will fight her, then I will myself,” he said.**Or; Evil King Jaime defeats Brienne in a duel and now she has to marry him.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: Etchings [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2140638
Comments: 56
Kudos: 180
Collections: Jaime x Brienne January Madness





	The Marriage Vow

**Author's Note:**

> Due to popular demand, I have revisited this little stray spark and revamped the ending. It’s still not a PWP romp, but hopefully the ending is more satisfying now. Thanks to all who commented on the original! I was blown away by the response.

1.

“Ah,” said the beautiful golden tyrant on the Iron Throne. “At last. The Maid of Tarth! We have heard so much of you.”

He beckoned to her. “Come forth, Brienne the Beauty.”

Brienne drew in a long breath. The throne room ought to have been dark and shadowed, but it was filled with bloody golden light, the stained glass window behind the throne bearing the crimson and gold lion of Casterly Rock. 

Brienne stepped forward. The light fell on her mismatched features, on her too-wide mouth, her twice-broken nose, her straw-like hair and her too-muscular body. She was trussed up in a horribly ill-fitting gown.

The courtiers behind her murmured amongst themselves, tittering softly. She ignored them, her eyes fixed on the throne.

King Jaime Lannister leaned forward. “Well, well. A maid who fights like a man, as tall and strong – and ugly – as a man.” He stood up, prowled down the steps of the dais, the light playing lovingly over him, until he stood before her. “Why are you here, Lady Brienne?”

He was not talking just to her; his voice was pitched up, and he was addressing the assembled court as much as Brienne. This was a show, she realised. A mummer’s play.

She swallowed. He was no more than an arm’s length away. She could reach out and seize him, wrap her arm around his throat, and – what? She would be cut down by the Kingsguard in an instant.

Drawing on all her courage, she went down on her knees before him, bowing her head. “Your grace,” she said, forcing the words out, “I have come to seek your pardon and beg for mercy.”

“What have you done, that I should pardon you?” he asked.

“I have taken up arms against the Iron Throne,” she said dully. “In my misguided and naïve youth, I was led astray by the traitors Renly Baratheon and Ned Stark.” The words burned, but she forced them out; she fought back tears as she remembered Renly’s smile, and Lady Catelyn’s kindness.

But they were both dead now, crushed by Lannister forces, and Brienne was alive – alive, and forced to carry on without them.

The king was silent for a long moment, drawing out the tension. Brienne clenched her fists, and forced her hands to relax; she drew in a long breath, and breathed out, trying to calm herself.

“And now that your father is dead and rival claimants seek to claim Tarth, you have come to seek my forgiveness,” the king said. “Well, you are honest, at least.”

The king’s right hand entered her vision. She stared at it, mesmerised.

The hand that had slain Aerys Targaryen. That had executed his treasonous sister-wife, Cersei, and his eldest son.

The hand that had slain Renly and Ned Stark, and cast Bran Stark from a tower window.

It was a beautiful hand: strong and well-formed, long, elegant fingers tipped with sword-callous, nails clean and neatly trimmed. There was an emerald ring on his finger, winking bright green.

She took his hand in hers, and pressed her lips to the ring.

“Rise,” he said, “and receive the kiss of peace.” 

She rose unsteadily to her feet, clumsy in her unaccustomed skirts, and stood still as he kissed her on both cheeks. His lips were soft, and his short golden beard rasped against her skin. They were standing so close that she could feel the warmth of his body, and she realised that he was only an inch or two shorter than her – and that he was quite extraordinarily handsome.

She felt the blotchy tide of colour rise in her cheeks, and stepped hastily away.

But his eyes – and his hand – held her. His gaze went past her to the court, watching on, eager to hear his pronouncement.

“A woman who has twice taken up arms against me may be tempted to do so a third time,” he said. “Before I grant you your island, I must ensure that this time you will remain loyal to the throne.”

“Your grace, I swear by all that is holy –”

“Sacred oaths mean nothing, Lady Brienne. I know that all too well. No. You must take a loyal husband.”

She swallowed. Opened her mouth. Shut it again. “Your grace, I have sworn that I will not –”

“You will not marry until you have been overcome by a man. Yes, I heard something of that. Well, what of it? If you insist, I can throw you to my guards –”

“I will not marry a man who cannot best me with a sword,” she said hoarsely, correcting him.

Silence fell. The courtiers rustled and whispered.

For the first time, she had the sense that he was considering her. Unlike Randall Tarly, who had dismissed her with such contempt, unlike old Humphrey Wagstaffe who had blustered and sworn to put her in her place, King Jaime’s eyes slowly lit with genuine interest, and with a slow, dancing amusement.

“And what will you do, Lady Brienne, if a man does overcome you – with a sword? Will you meekly consent to become his wife, putting aside your arms and armour for skirts and a spindle?”

He prowled around her. She stood with her face towards the Iron Throne, her skin crawling with awareness of him. She did not want him at her back. The thought of it was – 

“If that man can defeat me, I will be a loyal wife,” she forced out, her mouth dry, trying to make her voice as confident as her words. “But not otherwise.”

“And yet you must marry, or you will never return to Tarth.” He circled back in front of her, looked around the throne room with a show of interest. “Are there any here who would brave the Beauty’s sword?” he asked, pitching his voice up. “Though he will have to be a brave man indeed, given the rumours of her prowess –”

The rumours had run the length and breadth of the Seven Kingdoms. How she had held off the Lannister forces to allow Renly to escape from Bitterbridge. How she had gone mad after Lady Catelyn’s death, and it had taken ten men to subdue her. Many of the knights assembled in the throne room had seen her fight, or had faced her blade.

The crowd murmured behind her, but no voices rang out. The king frowned at them. “What?” he asked. “Are there no gallant knights among you? I grant the lady is no beauty, and the Sapphire Isle no more than a godforsaken rock in the Narrow Sea, but even so –”

Titters sprang up, and Brienne closed her eyes, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her.

“Well, if none among you will fight her, then I will myself,” he said.

**

2.

The next morning, the day dawned bright and clear.

Brienne took the time to prepare herself, drawing on her old breeches and tunic, and slowly – with the aid of a few squires in Lannister crimson and gold – clothing herself in her own suit of armour, returned to her by the king. Her old sword, that she had surrendered on the battlefield long weeks ago, had also been returned.

The sword and armour – and the squires – had arrived at the door of her chamber at first light, along with a note in scrawled untidy handwriting that said: _To ensure an even playing field._

She squared her shoulders, feeling steadier now with the old, familiar weight of armour enclosing her; her gauntleted fist closed on the hilt of her sword, the balance and heft welcome to her hand.

She closed her eyes and murmured a short prayer to the Warrior.

The squires waited in respectful silence.

When she opened her eyes again, she was ready.

“Let’s go,” she said.

The squires led her through the Red Keep to the practice yard at the foot of White Sword Tower. Even so early in the morning, a great crowd had assembled: courtiers and servants and smallfolk, all craning to catch a glimpse of the notorious Maid of Tarth, and to cheer on their king to a great victory.

All seven of the knights of the Kingsguard stood at various points around the yard, white sentinels in full armour; household guards in red cloaks and lion helmets held the crowd back with long spears and pikes. On a dais, an empty throne sat, the young princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen seated beside it, along with the members of the Small Council and the High Septon.

When a figure clad from head to toe in golden armour emerged, a coronet encircling his helmet and a crimson cloak falling from his shoulders, the crowd surged to its feet and let out a roar.

The king raised his hand to the crowd, turning in place to acknowledge them all.

He had come to power through oathbreaking and murder. He’d married his own sister, despite all the protestations of the Faith, and had fathered three children on her. He’d sat on the Iron Throne for fifteen years, and had crushed any and all who had sought to take it from him – including his wife and son; including Renly Baratheon and Ned Stark. And yet under his rule, the Seven Kingdoms had seen peace and prosperity and order.

At his gesture, trumpets rang out and a herald stepped forth, intoning that King Jaime of House Lannister, the First of His Name, fought the Maid of Tarth for the sake of her hand.

It was just like a tale, Brienne thought sourly. The cheering smallfolk would spread the story far and wide. Only in the songs, all knights are gallant and chivalrous, and all ladies beautiful.

The trumpets rang out again, and the fight began.

**

The crowd was roaring in the background. In the three years since she’d left Tarth, she’d never heard anything like it, not even the shouting and screaming of pitched battle. The atmosphere was almost overwhelming.

She knew her strength and her capability. She knew that her reach was greater than his, that she was more powerful; she could batter away at him, all brute strength and no subtlety. But he was said to be the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. He had been one of Aerys Targaryen’s Seven, had trained with Ser Arthur Dayne, and Ser Gerold Hightower, and Prince Lewyn Martell of Dorne.

They tested each other, sparring a little at first, taking the other’s measure. He was quick and agile, his footwork sublime; he slid around her and cut at her knees, and she had to jump backwards, almost losing her balance. He _was_ every bit as good as the tales, and unlike many other men she had fought, he did not underestimate her.

When they began to fight in earnest, she felt her blood run swift in her veins. He was so quick, so elusive, and though she held her ground and refused to yield he kept attacking her, and it was all she could do to fend him off. The sun beat down on her armour, and sweat dripped into her eyes; she gripped her sword and threw herself forward, hacking and slashing, trying to batter that implacable golden figure into submission, breathing in great gasps as he met every blow and threw her back, going on the attack in turn.

The crowd faded into the background, the sound a distant roaring in her ears, and all she knew was the song of their blades, her heart pounding, as she fought an opponent unlike any she had ever faced before.

She must win this match. And yet, for the first time, as they stepped and lunged and stamped, their blades clashing with a shrill screech, sparks flying as they met, she began to realise that she might lose. That he might be better than her.

Her heart labouring in her chest, her breath gasping, she put forth one great effort, raining blows down on him – the rhythm of their dance going up and up and up in tempo – until with a great cry, she lunged at him, and he twisted his blade around hers and sent her sword flying from her hand –

Disarmed, she tried to fight on with her fists and her knees, grappling and wrestling with him, but eventually he bore her down to the packed earth, tore off her helmet, and placed his sword point over her eye.

The crowd roared and screamed, but all she could see was the faceless golden king, the iron-fisted tyrant who had killed Renly and Lady Catelyn –

“Do you yield?” he asked.

“No!” she snarled, thrashing in her armour, trying to regain her feet.

His armoured foot came down over her chest, forcing her down.

“Do you yield?” he asked again.

“No!” she cried, her arms grasping at the packed earth and straining against his weight. Her eyes filled with tears of rage. “Never.”

The crowd was so loud that no one could hear her, only him.

“You would rather die than marry me?” he asked. “You’d rather your island go to another?”

Slowly, moment by moment, her blood began to cool, the haze of battle clearing.

She did not want to marry the tyrant. But nor did she want to die, or to see the smallfolk of Tarth suffer.

“I yield,” she said sullenly.

**

3.

They were wed that very evening. 

The weight of the crimson and gold Lannister cloak draped over her shoulders felt heavier than armour; the white silk wound around her wrist seemed as binding and restrictive as a bone corset, wrapping her around with vows and obedience.

She was taller than her husband, and probably stronger. But he could lift his hand to her and no man in the kingdoms would rebuke him. If she lifted her hand to him –

There was a merry feast, at which she ate no more than a few morsels. There was music and dancing and drunken well-wishing.

But there was no bedding ceremony, for which she could only be grateful.

When she was alone in her new chambers, she tore at the laces of her richly embroidered, horribly fitting gown, gasping for breath, ripping it off until she stood in her stockings and her shift, her eyes blurred with tears in the firelight. 

The sound of a connecting door opening brought her head up. She turned quickly, her hands coming up to cover herself.

The king sauntered in from what must be his own chambers, magnificent in crimson and gold silk and velvet, jewel-encrusted goblet of wine in hand.

“For you,” he said, holding the wine out to her. “To put some colour in your cheeks.”

Hands trembling, she lifted the goblet to her mouth and drank, feeling the wine go straight to her head. A pleasant lassitude washed over her, so she drank again, deeply, and again.

His hand on her wrist stopped her. Suddenly he was right in front of her, his hand warm on her skin, his body close enough to reach out and touch.

He was so beautiful, Brienne thought helplessly. So beautiful, and so cruel.

“So shy,” he said. “One would think you were a maid in truth, wife.” And when she flushed, her cheeks flaming blotchy red, a slow, wicked smile curled his lips. “Don’t tell me there were no strapping stable boys at Evenfall Hall. Or that during those long nights in Renly’s camp, not one of those brave knights ever sweet-talked his way into your tent.”

Her eyes blazed. “Some of them tried,” she said, clenching her fists. “They soon regretted it.”

She thought back on those nights, pitching her tent far from the centre of the camp and sleeping with one eye open, waking at every rustle and whisper. She had been so careful not to overindulge in wine, conscious always of the whispers the men thought she could not hear.

She had slept in full armour, with her sword cradled in her arms.

“Ah,” he breathed, trailing his hand from her wrist to her elbow, then sliding his arm around her waist, coaxing her against him. “That explains your eyes.”

Startled, she put her hand on his chest, fending him off. “My eyes?”

“Blue as the Maiden’s,” he said. “And pure and chaste as –” he stopped to consider, smiling cynically. “As no other woman I have known.”

She flushed. “I am not –” Innocent, she thought. She had fought and killed, had grieved for love lost, had known both joy and despair.

“But you’ve never let a man between your thighs, have you.” He drew her even closer, brushing his bearded cheek against hers, whispering hoarsely in her ear. “No man has touched you but me. No man _will_ ever touch you but me.”

She could feel him pressed against her, feel his – his cock, roused and eager. She shuddered, her blood beating thickly in her veins. The wine. It had to be the wine.

His other hand came up to brush her hair out of her face, stroking over her cheek. He trailed his calloused thumb over her lips, and she parted them instinctively, yearning – he slid his hand into her hair and kissed her.

She drew in her breath. It was nothing like the songs, gentle and reverent; it was unbearably intimate, and something stirred, deep and dark inside her.

Slowly, slowly, he kissed her, over and over, and he drew her closer, always closer, until they were pressed together at hip and waist and breast, until she rubbed her cheek against his beard, sighing, until she turned her head and sought out his mouth of her own volition.

She lost herself, for a time. The wine and the fire and the warmth of his touch - simple touch, when she had been alone for so long - all combined to make her forget who she was, who _he_ was, and simply give in to pleasure.

When he slowly began to walk her over to the bed, still kissing her, she moved with him, her mind wreathed with wine, with the feel of his body pressed against her, warm and strong.

Suddenly she was on her back on the bed, and he was leaning over her, his mouth at her breast. She clutched his golden curls, sighing, her hips arching and her legs falling open.

“Well?” he whispered darkly in her ear, stroking his hand over her belly and down towards – towards –

She jack-knifed, bringing her knees together and rolling out from underneath him, scrambling off the edge of the bed and staring at him, wide-eyed.

“No,” she said, her breathing ragged. “No, I don’t –”

 _Want to,_ she thought, biting her lip.

He only looked at her. Her husband. The tyrant king of the Seven Kingdoms.

He had bested her with a sword.

And yet –

“I don’t want to,” she said stubbornly. It was as much truth as a lie.

For a moment, something dark flashed across his face. But then it was gone, and he was looking at her with that ever-present amusement. “Why not?”

“You’re a monster,” she flung at him. “A murderer!”

“I’m not a monster,” he said. “Only a king.” He tipped his head. “Though I’ll grant you, with Aerys it was difficult to tell the difference -“ 

“You are an oathbreaker, and an abomination, and -” she trailed off. 

“You may call me anything you choose,” he said pleasantly, his smile razor sharp, “but it doesn’t change the fact that we are man and wife, now. How long do you mean to keep this up?”

She crossed her arms over her chest and set her mouth, sullen and unhappy. “As long as I need to,” she said. “You’ll have to force me.” Her eyes darted around the room, searching for some kind of weapon with which to hold him off. 

She could stop him, if she had to. She could even kill him. But what would come of it, afterwards?

He only sighed. “Murderer I may be, and even a monster, but I’m not a raper. Either you come to me willingly, wife, or not at all.” 

They stared at one another for a long time, across a great divide. 

“And if I never come to you willingly?” she asked. 

“You will,” he said. “Eventually.” His mouth curled again, not with razor-sharp, cutting irony, but with slow, lazy amusement. “But for now, if we’re not going to fuck -“

She flinched at the deliberate crudity.

“- then we should get some sleep.” 

He stood up and stripped off his tunic. Hastily, she turned her back - but not before she caught a glimpse of smooth golden skin and sleek muscle. It seemed like an age before she finally heard him say “You can look now, wife.” 

When she turned around again, she saw that he was between the covers of her bed, his chest bare. 

“Well?” he asked. 

“You’re not going to - surely we can’t - “

“Lady Brienne,” he said, “either fuck me or sleep with me, it’s your choice.” 

She climbed in between the sheets and lay down next to him. He blew out the candles, and then they were alone together in the bed, not touching though they lay no more than a handsbreath apart. 

She lay awake for a long, long time, staring into the dim, firelit darkness, until finally exhaustion overcame her and she drifted off to sleep, lulled by the sound of his soft, steady breathing.


End file.
